


stars are singing (listen child)

by RottenKidNextDoor (PortalofWords)



Series: he was made of leather and gold [2]
Category: Descendants (Disney Movies)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Jay has magic, M/M, Magic!Jay, Multi, carlos has nightmares, jay also has a very good singing voice, jay's mother sang to him, the isle was a terrible place, they all have nightmares
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-04
Updated: 2019-02-04
Packaged: 2019-10-22 12:09:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17662370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PortalofWords/pseuds/RottenKidNextDoor
Summary: "The silly, stupid little songs were - unknowingly - becoming his foundation, his center, his grounding in the face of the red-hazed storm."orjay's magic bleeds out through his mother's old lullabies.





	stars are singing (listen child)

**Author's Note:**

> Just a quick note: the italic song/poem that is threaded throughout this work should be in Arabic, but I didn't feel confident enough to translate properly so I left it in English

 

_“Sleep, baby, sleep._

_I’ll be there when you wake.”_

  


 

Jay didn’t remember his mother, but he did remember her songs.

Her voice, her rhymes, her melodies. They had always begun in the darkness, at the edge of those black Isle nights, lit only by the flickering of a candle on the table. Sometimes, Jay could sometimes manage to call up the image of a shadowy woman sitting by his little rug, dark hair falling like his around her shoulders. But her face was lost to history, lost to him, lost among all those lost on the island who no longer breathed the smoggy air. If not for her lullabies, she would have faded away entirely - simply dust blowing in the wind or shifting through the sea.

  


 

_“Sleep, oh, precious darling, sleep_

_I’ll watch over till dawn’s break.”_

  


 

And maybe it was better that way.

Jay didn’t have time for music or songs anymore. His stomach coiled in tight knots of hunger, and days and nights were no longer separated. They were just hours - dark or light - that he could fill with work. The more stuff he brought in, the more likely he was to sleep on that rug, under those shelves, where his mother used sing him to sleep. His father never could be satisfied with the junk, the garbage, the brokenness of the island’s offerings… along with the son who brought them home.

  


 

_“Sweetest one, don’t fear the dark._

_My voice will guide the way.”_

  


 

As the years went on, the songs faded into the background for the most part, pushed away to the dark recesses of his mind. They only managed to appear when the walls broke down and the chains crumbled away. The melodies resurfaced when his cheek stung with his father’s fists, and his heart hurt with the words he’d never spoken, and his eyes stung with the tears he hadn’t let fall since he was small enough to have the lullabies sung to him. Then, and only then, would the soft words escape past his lips and he’d hum, gently, softly, to keep himself from shattering.

  


 

_“Baby boy, you’re all I have._

_I won’t let you slip away.”_

  


 

The soft crooning of a faraway mother in their beautiful language wove his self control together, kept his mind clear, cut through the pain and loneliness and frustration and _anger._ The silly, stupid little rhymes were - unknowingly - becoming his foundation, his center, his grounding in the face of the red-hazed storm. His father hated it. He hated the way Jay’s lips moved subconsciously when he didn’t know anyone was looking; he hated the way he caught his son whistling or humming in the late night hours on the street corner; most of all he hated the melodies, _her_ melodies, that soared and soothed and washed over the world like honey. And so he sought to cut out every hint of that beautiful, lust-filled mistake that had ever crossed their threshold.

 

 

_“There’s something fierce about your smile._

_And the way you breathe beside me.”_

  


 

Jay’s mother’s Arabic was nothing like his father’s. His mother’s was rich and smooth and comforting; it had spun out of her mouth like a waterfall when she was alive, sparkling like the most precious of metals that Jay had longed for then and longed for still. Jafar’s didn’t sparkle like hers did; his purr was that of a panther’s waiting to pounce, raising to a gruff shout, and always, always ending the same way. Be it words or fists, his father never ended without pain. Even the rare moments of pride were tinged with greed and lust and anger. The very same anger he sometimes felt within himself, growing and building and breaking deep, deep inside his chest;  the red hot rage boiling underneath that he tried to quell with the cool comfort of his mother’s songs.

  


 

_“Don’t cry so hard, my darling boy._

_Someday we’ll both be free.”_

  


 

And then, one day, he blinked and his world had opened. Lying close to the places where his mother’s song touched, he now had a purple-haired fae, a blue-locked enchantress, and a little freckled genius to hide away, to protect, to save. They were his, and for some reason that his father would never understand - and maybe Jay wouldn’t either - they were more precious than gold or jewels or power. Mal, with her flashing eyes and orders and protection; Evie and her darling laugh, her terrifying hiss; and Carlos, with his eyebrows that narrowed when he focused and tongue that grazed his lips when he concentrated. His. They were his.  

  


 

_“Sleep, sweetheart, sleep._

_It’s time to sleep, my love.”_

  
  


 

When Mal discovered that she had magic, something stirred deep inside Jay’s gut. Not jealousy, not anger, but _fear._ Shifting, turning, fear that stayed embedded under his skin and formed an itch that even he couldn’t wriggle out of. Evie had power, too, with her long, slender fingers that could mix up death in a potion stronger than her mother’s would ever be. Magic. Passed on from their parents, harnessed by their children, and formed into something stronger, something bigger, something darker.

  


 

_“When morning comes, you will be strong._

_With wonders you have dreamed of.”_

  


 

Sometimes, on the rare occasions that he still slept on his rug, Jay would lie awake and listen to his father moving around in the dark, cursing and sputtering. The thief had heard the stories; stories about the power, the fear, the dark and wild magic that his father had wielded. And now, when he felt the rage, felt like hurting somebody, breaking something, screaming in the streets, the pit of fear in his stomach whispered to him what he already knew: anger. His magic would be rooted in anger, geared for destruction, perfectly poised to rip apart the world when he lost control. So he couldn’t lose control. And if he couldn’t lose control, and he couldn’t punch, and he couldn’t stab and he couldn’t cry and he couldn’t ever use his magic  - it left him only one other thing to do. Jay sang.

  


 

_“You are my darling, you are my life._

_And even when I fade.”_

  


 

When the barrier opened, when they were allowed to leave, Jay faltered. Beyond the barrier, beyond the suffocating, damning wall of power that kept them all trapped on the floating chunk of rock, he could see the magic waiting for him. The magic waiting to take hold of him, to change him, to excite him into smashing apart the only life he’d ever known. The only lives any of them had ever known. And when it happened? When he became just like his father, the man everyone said he resembled in the height of his glory? The dust would settle, the rage would fade, and he’d be left just like the old grand vizier now sitting in the darkness, counting coins with no value: alone.

 

 

_“Baby, I promise you, I swear it._

_These moments I’ll not trade.”_

  
  


 

They were older. They were wiser. They smiled and they laughed and they marched with a purpose, but their armor was strengthened by light, by eyes, by expectations. When the darkness set in, when the day turned to night, when the room got quiet, their chinks began to show. And the freckled genius, his Carlos, who was so bright and quick under the sun’s watchful eyes that reminded him of his mother’s, fell apart in his dreams. Sometimes, he would wake, and others, he would just cry out in that fitful state between dreams and consciousness, between _nightmares_ and consciousness. And in that darkness, with the boy sobbing and sweating in his arms, when the words were already playing on his lips, Jay would sing - softly, gently, her words in his mouth. And the soft tune would soothe the troubled, wonderful boy in his bed back to a calmer sleep.

  


 

_“Sweetest child, most wonderful boy._

_Your struggles may be long.”_

  


 

It became more regular than Jay would’ve liked to admit - the singing; the soft, Arabic words being spoken to another person for the first time in many, many years. The songs that had quieted his own fear, and then later his anger and frustration, calmed the boy that Jay wanted to protect, to hold, to comfort.

  


 

_“But once you’re past, the clouds will break._

_You’ll get there, dear; you’re strong.”_

  


 

It was a dark, winter day when Mal finally heard. The four of them gathered, huddled, safety in numbers, as the rain fell down outside. The drops slid down the windows, pounded on the roof, and soaked through the memories of rain-drenched nights on the island of their origin. It was that day that Carlos started whimpering, moving, his eyes darting behind his lids, his hands reaching out to protect his body against a mother that was not there. And without thinking, Jay had pulled him close, whispered in his ear, and sung the words that were no longer locked away in his mind, but resting beneath the surface of his skin and thoughts. _Magic_ , Mal had said as she watched the tension drain from Carlos’ desperate body. _That’s magic, Jay._

  


 

_“Nothing’ll be too hard, my boy._

_No pain will break your spirit.”_

  


 

At those words, at that realization, the fear in Jay’s gut lifted. His magic, his power, his abilities weren’t supplied by anger. They didn’t come from his rage or his frustration, but from worry. From concern. From something else that had begun to nestle so deeply inside his soul that he worried he might never understand how to get it out. _Love, Jay,_ Mal had whispered. _It’s love._

 

 

_“Because you, sweetheart, are not alone._

_You’re mine, love. Don’t forget it.”_

 


End file.
